Possession
by erisedvision139
Summary: So Voldemort latches on to Quirrell's soul in Albania. But what happens if Quirrell is stronger than Voldemort gives him credit for? Eventual LV TR /QQ. Inspired by AVPM, but nothing to do with its plot.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, all. **

**This is just a short teaser for an idea I had. If you'd like it continued, please review.**

**This is written for the Never Before Seen Pairings Challenge – I am very surprised to see I am the first writer in the Quirrellmort(for I christen it thus) fandom.**

**It was also written because I have, thanks to Poseida Lunar, just watched A Very Potter Musical on youtube, and it opened my eyes to the many possibilities of Quirrell/Voldemort. You may want to check out the musical (Under StarKidPotter or 'A Very Potter Musical' – I tip it as the next Potter Puppet Pals: it's hilarious!) though keep in mind that this story will not be very similar in terms of plot, i.e. this story _will actually have _a plot. :P**

**Let the show begin!**

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_Why in the name of Merlin is the Slytherin power the ability to understand and talk to snakes? _Lord Voldemort thought grumpily. _They're boring as hell, and stupid, too. _Lord Voldemort was currently inhabiting a snake – a long nosed viper – in Albania. The snake's thoughts ran as follows:

"Food food food I want a mouse a mouse or maybe a rat a rat would be nice rat rat rat rat oh maybe even a bird if I can get one oh a bird bird bird but they fly in the air in the air in the. . ."

Never had Voldemort's patience been tested to such extremes. Normally, if someone irritated him he would just kill them, but that would be unwise in this case, considering he was relying upon the life energy of this snake to survive. For once, though, Voldemort wished he was not the heir of Slytherin, so that he wouldn't be able to comprehend the thoughts of this mindless reptile. At least snakes were easy to control.

He had been residing in various snakes for years now, since that Potter boy defeated him, and he was tired of it. Hadn't he told his followers to meet him in Albania if anything went wrong? Did they not have faith in him? Did they think he had been bested by a two-year old?

Suddenly something caught his eye. Ordering the snake in Parseltongue, he made it move so that he could have a better view of the forest from the rocky slope on which the snake was sunning itself. Yes, he had been right. A man was entering the forest, the first man he had seen in years. A men in wizarding robes, no less! Excited, he slid forwards, eager to be free of his unintelligent companion.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_Where am I? No, wait, _who_ am I? _Quirrell thought, staring up at the leaf canopy above him. Pine needles scraped his back, as the memories came flooding to him.

His name was Professor Quirinus Quirrell, and he was on a sabbatical from Hogwarts – and was at the moment in the Black Forest of Albania – to gain some experience before transferring from Muggle Studies teacher to teacher of Defence Against the Dark Arts the following year. His father was a Muggle, Christopher, and his mother, Miranda, was a witch. He was twenty years of age – he had been thirteen when You-Know-Who was defeated. In fact, the year after next he was due to be teaching the Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter.

Satisfied that he remembered who he was, where he was, and what he was doing, he sat up and dusted himself off. He _felt _fine. What could have happened? All he remembered was minding his own business, looking out for vampires, and then . . . nothing.

Gripped by a sudden fear, Quirinus raised a hand – now trembling – to his neck. Nothing. He heaved a sigh of relief, and bent down to pick up his notebook and continue on his way, putting his blackout down to the heat. It was uncommonly hot this summer.

It was only later that Professor Quirrell began to hear the voice speaking inside his head.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was one year exactly since the blackout in the Black Forest. Quirinus was packing his trunk in anticipation of taking a portkey to Hogwarts that evening. Term began in two weeks.

He finally stuffed the last of his large collection of books in – The Bawl of the Banshee, by Alexandra Aranford – and, sitting on the lid, shut the case with a large click which echoed in his small room. In fact, his entire flat was small, but with a Quidditch Groundskeeper for a mother and a gardener for a father, how much more could he expect to afford in London? Hogwarts did not pay handsomely – not many wizarding professions did.

"_And I suppose you're dissatisfied, halfblood, with your cushy Defence Against the Dark Arts Post and your year long sabbatical?"_

Quirrell leaped off the trunk, which in turn fell off his bed onto the floor with a clatter. He ran a hand through his short brown hair as he looked around nervously. The thud of the trunk on the floor resounded in his head. He could hear nothing but his heartbeat and his ragged breathing. But that didn't mean anything. Someone was there, in his room. A Legilimens, by the look of things. A Disillusionment charm, perhaps?

He snatched his wand from the bedside table.

"W-who's there?" he stuttered, cursing himself for appearing weak. He was a Gryffindor, for Merlin's sake! He was going to be teaching Defence Against The Dark Arts in a fortnight and if he was going to be a wimp he may as well hand in his notice! His grip on the wand tightened after such a self-reprimand, and he stood taller, consciously lifting his chin.

"I demand that you identify yourself!" he ordered._ Hopefully, _he thought,_ I can hear their reply and judge where they are._

_"And if I don't want to identify myself...?" _the voice hissed.

Quirrell suppressed a shudder at the low and taunting voice, and tried to work out where the voice was coming from. It seemed to be from right behind him, sneering into his ear. He hadn't heard or felt any movement or breathing, but nevertheless he whirled around and slashed his wand at the air to his back.

_"Good show," _the voice murmured sarcastically._ "I can see that once again Dumbledore has made an extremely foolish decision regarding staff."_

Quirrell had had enough. Yes, he'd been set upon by vampires, and he had beaten them. He had banished banshees and hounded hags. Magical creatures and practitioners of dark magic often found it amusing to target the latest Hogwarts professors. As a result, he had found that he was really quite good at defending himself against the dark arts. But what sort of dark art was this? Someone creeping into his room and insulting him hardly seemed dangerous.

"_Hominem Revelio!_" he cried.

Nothing happened. Perhaps this beast – for that was what he concluded it must be – simply got its kicks out of taunting its victims before killing them. Quickly, he ran through the short list of things he knew about his foe. It wasn't a human, and it could read his mind, and it was invisible.

_"Two out of three isn't bad, I suppose."_

"Pardon?"

_"So you're deaf too? Tut tut, Quirrell, I really thought you'd do better than this."_

"What are you?"

_"Ah, going for the Gryffindor route of simply asking once you first hit a brick wall in your investigations."_

"Well, you're quite plainly invisible, you can obviously read my mind, and yet the charm I cast doesn't indicate any other human in here but me! I'm never going to work it out if I have two pieces of conflicting evidence," Quirrell said, feeling like a fool. Although he had turned out to be rather good at practical work in the field, it was certainly true that Quirinus Quirrell preferred reading books about how to tackle monsters than actually coming up against one. He wasn't sure you were supposed to argue with one, for a start. The vampires he'd met hadn't taken negotiation too well.

_"Full of Gryffindor arrogance, too. I'll soon knock that out of you. My name is Lord Voldemort, and I am inside your head."_

_~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~_

**So? Yes, no, maybe?**

**If you'd like the show to go on, please review! There'll be a great deal of dialogue/thoughtlogue (I am aware this is not a real word) to come.**

**If you think I'm mad, please review!**

**Even if you wish to flame me until I am a blackened crisp, please review!**

**I'll reply to them all. ;)**

**Signing off,**

**Erised.**

_**PS- (To Ariket readers – I'm sorry, I'm sorry! The movie's coming out soon, I'm rereading all the books and rewatching all the movies, we're all planning a massive party. I've watched A Very Potter Musical about 6 million times. I've been visiting universities. In short, I've been busy. But I'm up over halfway through chapter 7, and so it should be posted before the 20th July.)**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello! Thanks very much for the encouraging response to the previous chapter. I was very glad to hear that so many others had watched A Very Potter Musical too! If you reviewed this, you should have received an individual review response by now. If you didn't receive such a response, send me an angry PM, but I think I got everyone!**

**Anyway . . . on with the show!**

**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

"Y-you're inside my head?"

Not another damned stutter, he thought angrily, gripping his robes tightly with his free hand. He thought he had grown out of that.

"_Unfortunately yes. It's not the most well-furnished of residences, but it'll have to do."_

There was a pause, as Quirrell tried to digest the fact that he had a person inside his head.

"How?"

"_I must say," _remarked Voldemort conversationally, "_I thought you'd be more worried about the fact I declared myself to be Lord Voldemort. Surely the name inspires a modicum of blinding terror, at least?"_

"You're not Lord V- . . . Lord Vo-, You-Know-Who," finished Quirinus lamely. "Terrifyingly powerful though he was, there are two flaws with your assertion. Firstly, he is dead. Secondly, there is no magic of which I know in which one can put oneself in someone else's head."

_"Ah. Its good to see that even eight years after my fall my name remains unspoken. As for whether or not I do indeed hold the title of Lord Voldemort, I fear I must once again chide you on your abysmal lack of knowledge of your own subject. There are ways of escaping death, and it just so happens that those ways can result in fragments of one's soul attaching themselves to 'host' bodies. I am a fragment, and you are a host."_

"Prove it," said Quirrell, putting his wand away, as he seemed in no immediate danger.

"_Constant vigilance, my friend. You're in a room, alone, with the greatest wizard of all time, and you put away your wand? Fool. _

_And as for your demand, halfblood, I don't have to prove myself to the likes of you."_

"Assuming you _are_ You-Know-Who," said Quirrell, trying to keep his voice steady, as his mind raced, and he racked his brains to think of particular brands of dark magic he had overlooked, "Why did you choose me?"

"Choose _you?" _asked the voice incredulously. _"Believe me, there was no choice involved. It was either you or another snake."_

"What are you talking about? There are hundreds of wizards and witches in London – purebloods and You-Know-Who's former followers. What makes me so special?"

"_I wasn't in London, you moron. You picked me up in Albania. Rest assured you are entirely mundane, halfblood. I'd change if I could, but as it happens you're a teacher at Hogwarts, which fits in nicely with my future plans."_

_"_Your plans?"

"_Guess. Prove to me you're not as worthless as your stutter suggests."_

_'_I never normally stutter!' Quirrell thought, and it came as no surprise that Lord Voldemort – for this was indeed who he supposed the intruder to be; after all, he remembered the days with the armies of giants and corpses and god knows what. If there was a way to survive death, and live in other peoples' heads, Voldemort could do it – reacted to that thought as if it had been dialogue.

_"Then I find it flattering that my persona is so disarming. Besides, you're moving off the topic. Guess my plans, halfblood. Or are you too foolish even to have an imagination?"_

"It's you who lacks the imagination!" cried Quirrell. If indeed Voldemort found it too tiresome to change hosts, he could safely assume he was in very little danger at present. The main issue was to discover the nature of his plans, and thwart them. Quirinus had a suspicion that this would be difficult to achieve, especially considering that it seemed as if Lord Voldemort could read his mind. Quirrell continued hurriedly with a guess, hoping to distract Voldemort from his racing thoughts.

"I'm assuming it's something unrepentantly evil? First, you'll want to get a body, as you hate depending on people or things. Next, you'll want revenge on Harry Potter and your former followers who have betrayed you. After that's been taken care of, you'll want to get back to attempting world domination. Am I right?" asked Quirinus, somewhat surprised at the courage with which he spoke. He supposed he should not be; he had not been left unharmed by the war which had come to an end when he was thirteen. Friends were killed and friendships lost as prejudices took priority.

_"Close, halfblood, but not quite. I'll kill Potter before returning to my body – you provide an excellent place of concealment."_

"And how exactly do you presume to kill the Boy Who Lived when trapped inside my head?"

_"You think I'm just a hitch-hiker on the back of the broom, Quirrell? I captain this vessel now, and I can make you do anything I wish. Of course, I have to possess you fully first to do that. At the moment I'm merely residing within you."_

Professor Quirrell suppressed a shudder. He refused to let himself be used as a pawn by Voldemort to advance his plans.

"What's the name of the process by which you're in my brain?" he asked, tangentially.

"_There's no way to evict me, if that's what you're wondering. Whenever I leave a host, that host dies. I'm with you to the end."_

Quirinus could _feel_ the sneer, even if he could not see it.

"I don't plan on making this easy for you," he warned. Then he cursed himself. That was hardly a stark declaration of opposition, was it? The same words could have been spoken by someone waiting to be seduced, or by himself, setting a quiz for his pupils.

_"You can't see me, halfblood, but I'm positively trembling with fear. I don't _care_ about what your stance is. You may as well shut up. I will control you whether you like it or not. I can even make you like this possession if I feel like it. But I think its more fun this way, keeping you aware of what you will do to the people you care about and the cause you support. I want you to watch as I kill Potter with your bare hands."_

"No!" shouted Quirrell suddenly. He clenched his fists, and was close to pulling at his hair in frustration. How were you supposed to fight an enemy which was inside you?

_"I could make you smile as you killed your parents. I could make you drink their cooling blood," _Voldemort hissed.

"No!" repeated Quirrell again, though it was more of a low sob than a word. He wasn't sure whether it was a declaration of war, or a supplication.

_"I won't, of course. Though it would undoubtedly be diverting, I have plenty of time for that sort of thing _after_ killing Potter. And I highly doubt they'd let you back to Hogwarts after killing your family."_

The change of tone from Voldemort was just what Quirinus needed to wake him up. He had been letting this Dark Lord torture his mind, fill it with sickening images, when he hadn't had any proof that Voldemort could even control his actions.

_"You want proof?"_ the voice in his head whispered. _"I'm happy to oblige."_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Voldemort expected no more of this man. He had watched him for a year and was thoroughly unimpressed. Quirinus Quirrell was a Gryffindor, and what's more, he was a Gryffindor with friends. Tom had thought living in snakes was bad, but it was nothing compared to the inanity he had to endure, silently, for an entire year.

All that would change. Finally, on the day Quirrell packed for Hogwarts, Voldemort decided to reveal himself. He knew that there was no chance of Quirrell sharing his beliefs and ambitions – after all, he had seen the filth that Quirrell surrounded himself with, and the scum he called his parents – but decided to do so anyway, rather than assuming complete control. It would be amusing to have power over

someone again, he had decided.

So now, after a year of observing Quirrell's behaviour, of learning how he acted, behaved and thought, Voldemort scared the shit out of him by speaking to him.

Quirinus had reacted extremely predictably, he thought. Denial, attempted defence, and curiosity. It was pathetic, and in his opinion Quirrell should have spent a far greater amount of time attempting to exorcise Voldemort from his mind.

And now Quirrell was once again doubting his identity as the Dark Lord. It was time to offer proof.

Steeling himself, Voldemort began to assume control of Quirrell's mind. However mundane a wizard Quirrell was, he did not doubt that overcoming his defences would be harder than possessing a viper.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Quirrell had heard of Janus. Who in the wizarding world had not? January, after all, was named after this two-faced Roman god, because it was the time when wizards and witches alike looked back at the year which had passed, at the same time as looking forward to the year ahead.

In past decades, before Voldemort stirred up prejudices and violence, purebloods had very little to occupy themselves with, and so some of the pureblood aristocracy would hold Janus-themed Hogmanay parties. These parties generally consisted of much speech making about the past and the future, along with vast amounts of alcohol.

Indeed Quirrell had, as it tied in with both Muggle Studies and the Dark Arts, studied many of the Greek and Roman gods, and their true origins. A growing number of scholarly witches and wizards were of the opinion that the classical gods and goddesses were nothing more than wizards who wanted to have power over the muggles. Quirrell had thought that a glamour, perhaps, had been the reason behind Janus' strange appearance, with two faces on his head.

But now . . .

Now Quirrell felt blinding pain on the nape of his neck, and clenched his fists, crying out. Now he clapped a shaking hand to the back of his head, to discover that his short brown hair was rippling and flexing like farm crops in the grip of a violent storm. Now he felt his hair disappear, shrinking back into his head so quickly Quirinus wondered why he did not feel it enter his brain. And in the place of the hair was not a bald head, but a face.

Now Quirrell wondered about Janus. Was he using a glamour after all?

Or was he really, as the legends described, an amalgamation of two different people?

One thing was certain, Quirrell thought, as he brought his hand down from the back of his skull; this union was anything but godlike.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**I hope you enjoyed this! Things should be picking up in the next chapter, as we return to Hogwarts.**

**Reviews would be nice – I'd like to know where you think this is going, and what I can do to improve! I am aware some writers don't like concrit, but I'd LOVE lots - anything to help!  
**

**Signing off,**

_**Erised**_


	3. Chapter 3

**So hello.**

**Many apologies for:**

**Not updating for yonks.**

**Not actually getting back to Hogwarts in this chapter.**

**Before this chapter starts, I'd like to remind you that this _will_ be Quirrellmort in the end, but it's going to take quite a bit before we get there. Oh, and it gets kind of dark, too. It's M for a reason, and I wouldn't want you to read this and to have your AVPM-esque take on Quirrellmort totally shattered [remember that Joe Walker isn't _actually_ Voldemort, and Brian Rosenthal isn't _actually_ Quirrell, and you'll be fine!].**

**Thanks for all your reviews, and on with the show!**

**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

Quirrell relaxed in the smoky bar, sipping a Firewhiskey as the people around him grumbled and chatted. Voldemort was rather enjoying having a body – or at least, one with legs – and the novelty had not yet worn off.

Even being around wizardkind again, though much of it was disgustingly impure, gave him a thrill of delight. From performing a simple _Wingardium Leviosa_ to using Floo Powder, every aspect of his life was familiar and new at the same time.

Of course, he had attempted to indulge in some of the more carnal pleasures that a body bestowed, but Quirrell had been remarkably unco-operative. From the very first day of possession, Quirinus had been fighting with all his mental energy and, though Voldemort was loath to admit it, he had had some success: he could not speak without a stammer, and shook frequently. It had been easy to attribute these tics to his experiences in Albania (an irony Voldemort doubted Quirrell would appreciate), but they did serve as an obstacle for picking up women.

Compounded with the half-blood's weak chin and small eyes, thought Voldemort contemptuously, it was a wonder Quirinus was not still a virgin.

Voldemort was unsure how he felt about Quirrell's obstinacy. He had blocked off all contact with the vessel after the initial possession; even though he had been isolated for eleven years he was not yet that starved for conversation. After all, he'd never been that captivated by sex as Tom or the Dark Lord. It was too messy and involved a loss of control which was unacceptable and dangerous. In addition, it was fun to taunt Quirrell. Having control of the body meant that he could control the blood flow within the body, and bringing an unwilling person to climax – forcing _them_ to lose control – was exactly the sort of thing Voldemort most enjoyed. Especially when one could experience all the sensations of the body itself.

And thankfully, this was one area in which involuntary twitches were not a hindrance by any means.

* * *

Suddenly, the low buzz of chatter stopped.

"The usual, Hagrid?"

Voldemort sighed through his nose. Why the pub should fall silent for his oafish former classmate, Merlin only knew.

"Can't, Tom, I'm on Hogwarts business," said Hagrid. Voldemort could just _hear_ the pride in his voice. Albus Dumbledore, pondered Voldemort absently, had much in common with himself in terms of recruitment. Recruit from the weak, from those who feel maligned, and their gratefulness and loyalty will far exceed that of a well-adjusted, rational being.

Voldemort smirked into his goblet. What wondrous task had Rubeus been given now? Procuring next years' stationery?

His enjoyment of his own wit – rusty though it was – was soon cut short.

"Good Lord," said Tom, peering behind Quirrell's shoulder. "Is this – can this be -?"

The silence, which had been obvious before, was now oppressive. Despite himself, Voldemort was intrigued. A suspicion started to form inside his head when ––

"Bless my soul," whispered the old barman. "Harry Potter . . . what an honour."

Voldemort cursed the opaque turban folds which he had had Quirrell wrap around his face. He turned sharply, making sure to school Quirinus' expression into one of awe.

The pub was alive with subtle murmurs and rustles; and as Tom scuttled away from his post to fawn over the unremarkable boy, the mindless witches and wizards decided to follow his lead. There was a great scraping of chairs, and suddenly the boy was mobbed.

"Doris Crockford, Mr Potter, can't believe I'm meeting you at last."

"So proud, Mr Potter, I'm just so proud."

"Always wanted to shake your hand – I'm all of a flutter."

"Delighted, Mr Potter, just can't tell you. Diggle's the name. Dedalus Diggle."

Watching from the bar, Voldemort had to suppress a sneer. He also had to suppress Quirrell himself, whose heart was pounding with the effort of trying to shake him off. Honestly. Who did these people think they were meeting? A dark wizard? A man of great power? They were idolising a boy. A halfblood boy who was saved by chance, by the failure of a spell. By some wand defect.

The crowd showed no signs of dispersing, and Quirrell, recovering his thoughts, decided that he had better keep up appearances.

Cursing his continued weakness, he stirred his legs to action, lifting them, leaden, shaky and slow, towards the small wizard who had reduced him to vapour. Quirrell was putting up a fight again, and it was bothersome in the extreme. Try as he might, Voldemort could not stop his eye from twitching as he approached the Potter boy.

"Professor Quirrell!" said Hagrid. "Harry, Professor Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts."

And that was when Voldemort's control was lost.

* * *

Miranda Hubbard was a cunning witch. The last of her line, Miranda had been expected to marry well in order to restore the Hubbard fortunes.

Her father pointed her in the direction of the Blacks:

"They may be a little young, dear, but they're a well-respected family which we've not had contact with for over two generations."

With such a euphemism intended to convince Miranda that any offspring from such a union would not suffer any of the consequences of interbreeding, her father had then advised her to join the Quidditch team.

"I hear the Slytherin one – Regulus, or some other such pretentious astrological name – has quite an interest in the sport."

Miranda had followed her father's orders, trying out for Chaser at the beginning of her seventh year, and securing a place on the team. Though Regulus did practise regularly, even though at first year he was not yet good enough to reach the team, they talked rarely.

Miranda had grown up wary of traditional pureblood society: a desire to reach the top of this vicious ladder had resulted in huge debts for the family and a mother who suffered from an acute phobia of social situations. Regulus, however, seemed devoted to those ideals, and was sullen at the best of times.

His older brother Sirius, who wasn't much closer to Miranda's age, was impudent and precocious, and the last Hubbard couldn't stand either of them. She did, however, love Quidditch as soon as she began to play – she hadn't ever thought of the game before then, as her uncle had died in a mistimed Wronski Feint which had convinced her parents to ban her from flying lessons at school.

Driven to Quidditch for the benefit of the family, though, she found far more individual gain. Whilst convincing her family that staying over during the summer holidays was the best way to increase her influence over the rich men in her year – none of whom she was remotely interested in – Miranda helped the Quidditch teacher, an elderly man named Ogg who also liked to consider himself Keeper of Keys and Grounds, even though the title had technically been given to Hagrid, to trim the pitch and maintain the hoops.

Ogg was an odd case. Divorced from his first wife, a muggle, he lived in the castle for over eighty years after she left him, his only excitement coming from occasional postcards from her and his stepchildren, who were ignorant of what he was, believing instead that he was in a nursing home. His ex-wife, Sarah, who had left him once discovering his magic, had seemed unable to break off all contact, and, perhaps recognising his loneliness, had encouraged her sons to write to him.

Ogg's love for Sarah was all that kept him alive, Miranda thought. Even once she had died at the grand old age of 92, Ogg had continued to write postcards to her: she'd seen ten years' worth of them stuffed between broom service manuals in the Quidditch Keeper's hut.

"They think I'm senile. That's why they keep writing, you see. Sarah made them feel pity for me. Even her new man felt pity for me."

Miranda had made a sympathetic face as she sipped the extremely weak tea Ogg had made for her. She pondered the use of "new" to describe the man who had been married to Sarah Jones for over 60 years before he had died. Sarah never came back, not even after her second, muggle husband had died.

Miranda assumed it had been because of the children. What would they have said? How could she have left them?

So Sarah had continued to write him postcards. Three inches of increasingly shaky handwriting each week, sent by a surreptitious night owl. After her death, Ogg had received one last postcard from Sarah. Back bent with age, he had fished it out of an empty quaffle case, and held it unsteadily in front of Miranda's eyes.

This card was notably different to the rest, as it had a large red stamp on the top right corner.

Ogg had read it aloud, his rheumy eyes not needed for such a task.

"'_Christopher seems to be following your lead. He's just eight, and I caught him evening up the privet on Wednesday. This is what great-grandsons are for, I suppose: tidying our gardens and looking after us when we're old! I'm feeling it now, I must say. My hands have grown all shiny at the joints; it looks like the bone is trying to get through. I know I alarm you with such descriptions – you're probably still hopping about the place brandishing secateurs!'_

The writing changes here," he told Miranda, as though it was her who could no longer decipher the spidery ink.

'_We thought it only right to send this – our mother had not yet finished it when she passed away. We feel like we know you as she's told us so much about you. Our sympathies for you,_

_Arthur, Angus and Ian'"_

Miranda hadn't been able to think up a response to hearing this missive. What was the etiquette when a man withered both by age and solitude poured out his life story to you over a cup of badly-brewed tea? Thankfully, Ogg did not seem to mind her awkwardness. He talked; she listened. When Ogg himself died, just two weeks after that winter day when he had shown her grainy unmoving pictures of the family that could have been his, Miranda made sure that she alone knew of his letters – she took them and stowed them in her trunk.

After Ogg's death Miranda became the unofficial Quidditch Groundskeeper. Not having much interest in schoolwork itself, she dropped two NEWTS (unbeknownst to her parents) to concentrate on the upkeep of the pitch and stands. She began teaching flying to the young ones, and repaired the school brooms in spare afternoons. Most importantly, though, she received the correspondence intended for Ogg.

Arthur, Angus, and Ian, the three sons of Sarah Jones, had died since posting the card to Ogg: in the last four years Timothy, the one son of Arthur, had taken on the role of writing to him, and recently Christopher, the great-grandson mentioned in Sarah's last note, had begun to write his own letters.

In the first week after his death, Miranda had informed both Timothy and Christopher. However, she could not use stamps, as the next Hogsmeade weekend would be in late February. Thus she had to use her owl, instructing it firmly to drop the letter at the door in the night and not be seen.

She received a swift reply.

"_So Nanna was telling the truth? _

_Dad didn't believe her – said she was going dotty. It stuck in my mind, though, because she said I was so like him. He was a wizard? Is that why he lived so long? _

_That's why I wrote so much to Ogg – I tried to be less patronising than the rest of them, hoping he wasn't as demented as they all thought he was. I'm sad to hear he's dead. Who are you?_

_Sorry for so many questions. I was up early planting the magnolias outside – I think plants like them are best seeded by night, I don't know why – when I saw the owl. I'm sorry for pouncing on it: luckily it only had a few ruffled feathers, and I fed it some bacon. _

_Regards,_

_Christopher_

_PS – send by night on a Wednesday or a Saturday, and I'll be awake."_

Miranda posted and explained, and they bonded over a shared love of Herbology (or horticulture, as he called it). To cut a long story short, Miranda fell in love and eloped with a muggle, at the same time as securing a steady income, passing her seventh year, and convincing her parents that Regulus Black would propose to her once he came of age.

Yes. Miranda Hubbard was a cunning girl.

And she had a cunning son.

* * *

Quirrell knew that He-Who-Must-Not-Be . . . oh, all right, _Voldemort, _was still very strong, even though he was literally a shadow of his former self.

Quirrell knew that Voldemort would get used to resisting Quirrell, and find it easier after a while.

So Quirrell held back. He resisted, of course, when Voldemort tried to find some witch to take advantage of. It was fun to see them edge away, and reject someone who thought he was invulnerable to such slights.

He put up a genuine fight the first time Voldemort pushed him over the edge. It was only the day after the first possession, and Quirinus had just sent another girl scurrying away, muttering something about an urgent engagement, and his possessor was obviously angry, not to mention frustrated.

He had apparated back to their flat (how Quirrell hated calling it theirs!) where immediately he had felt the blood rush southwards. At the same time as experiencing the most aggressive erection in his life, he felt a surge of anger and shame.

_He's a murderer. How can you let yourself respond to this?_

Quirinus had done all he could to resist him – he had almost succeeded, but ultimately Voldemort had won, as he was expecting resistance. Voldemort had continued to win for quite a few days now. The momentary pleasure was far outweighed by the sheer humiliation, and the professor was sure Voldemort relished that knowledge.

However, today Quirrell had something that Voldemort did not know about. The element of surprise.

As soon as Voldemort made him start walking over to Harry, Quirrell began the assault.

* * *

"P-P-Potter," spat Voldemort, eyes twitching, fingers trembling. It was all he could do to maintain his grip on ––

And with that, he lost it. In a sudden surge, Quirrell overcame him. Quirinus smiled, glad his plan worked, and began to warn Harry.

He grasped his hand:

"c-can't tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you," he said, stuttering himself with exhaustion. He could feel Voldemort's face receding back into his head; the pain was agonising.

"What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?"

_There's no time for that, boy!_ he thought angrily, removing his hand sharply. In that split second, Voldemort resumed his reign.

"D-Defence Against the D-D-Dark Arts," muttered Professor Quirrell, as though he'd rather not think about it.

As Voldemort continued to speak through Quirrell, Quirrell was aghast.

_I did it! I overcame Voldemort only to waste my time on manners! Why, why was I not in Hufflepuff? I'm such a moron._

Eventually Doris Crockford shoved in front of him, pushing Quirrell away.

Voldemort, who now seemed in more control than before, strode out of the cramped, noisy bar and apparated back to his flat.

If Quirinus had been able to, he would have gulped. He knew he was going to pay for what he had just done.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Quite a few of you mentioned that you liked the classical references last chapter.**

**This was actually one of my reasons for my delay in updating: I couldn't find a way to fit them in here, but I'll be getting them in later, so don't worry!**

**Also, I am in fact applying for Classics at university, and it's been really busy preparing for my interview. I also have 5 dissertations to get out of the way. :/**

**Reasons 3 and 4 would be writer's block and illness.**

**Many, many apologies, and I hope you're still with me!**

**I was astounded by the reader response, and I hope I haven't scared you all off with the icky bits (I can't write any sort of non-con, sorry! I kept on revisiting it and in the end this was the only part I could bring myself to post in this chapter. . .). If anyone wishes to be a beta I'd be most grateful.**

**Regards,**

_**Erised.**_

**_PS - _If I haven't replied to your review for an earlier chapter, give me a shout. **


End file.
